Mistaken Judgment
by the lurker
Summary: "Oh Harry," Ruth's voice was colored with sadness, "I can't remember seeing you so down."  "Sorry," he muttered, forcing himself to smile for her, although she could easily see it never reached his eyes.
1. Chapter 1

_Mistaken Judgment_

Harry gripped the seat of the chair he was sitting in as he watched the CCTV live feed in horror.

"Dimitri, Beth, Lucas! Get out of there, get out now!"

"Harry," Beth's tense voice crackled through the comms, "it's unclear if everyone's out of the building yet."

"You need to get out, Beth, before detonation." His stomach tightened into knots as he thought of Ros, and he swallowed, trying to regain calm. "Beth, I need you to do as I've asked. Right now."

"Hotel staff say there's a little girl unaccounted for, Harry, a six-year old, I can't—"

"—Beth!" The tension in Harry's voice was palpable, "you're running out of time." He looked at his watch; less than 30 seconds. Better him to have to live with the decision to sacrifice a six-year old, than Beth. "I am your commanding officer, Beth, and I'm giving you a direct order—"

"—This isn't the military Harry—"

"—No, Beth, it's Her Majesty's secret service, which has an even more stringent chain of command. Now get out of there immediately!"

Tariq bit down hard on his lip as he, Harry and Ruth watched the monitors trained on the entrance of the upscale hotel in dreadful silence. Mere seconds later, Dimitri and Lucas came out the front at a dead run, but Beth wasn't with them. Harry's hands covered his nose and mouth, the tension having drained all color from his face. Finally Beth came out of the lobby door, diving for the nearest car to shelter her as the hotel exploded into shards of debris and shrapnel.

Harry's eyes closed, partly from the relief of seeing Beth leave the building, but mostly in remorse for the missing six-year old girl, who had presumably just been killed in the blast. He ripped the comm from his ear and buried his head in his hands. A moment later he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, but realizing who it had to be, he shrugged it off and abruptly stood. As he turned, she was standing right in front of him, staring up at him with concerned blue eyes.

"It's not your fault, Harry," she said softly.

He glared at her. "I'm the one who gave the order, Ruth, the bloody order to abandon a six-year old in a building that exploded." She laid a hand on her arm, and he yanked it away. "I don't want comfort, Ruth, especially from—"

He stopped himself, but it was too late. The distress that flashed in Ruth's eyes felt like a knife in his chest, but he had found that he could no longer tolerate anything even remotely personal from her; it hurt too much. Before Harry could say anything else, Ruth turned and stalked away, leaving him alone.

* * *

It was a bitterly cold night in London, and owing to his dreadfully dark mood, Harry had no idea how long he'd been aimlessly walking. He had long since shaken his security detail and anyone else who might have been tailing him, he was quite certain. He pulled the brim of his hat down a little lower, and shrugged inside his heavy coat, a shiver running up his spine. No matter how long or far he walked, Harry knew the guilt would follow him. The guilt of killing a six-year old girl. He wondered if she looked at all like Catherine had when she was that age; and that thought flooded his eyes with tears. Somewhere tonight, two parents were mourning an impossible grief. Harry couldn't begin to imagine the pain of losing a child. Tears filled his eyes until he couldn't see, and he stopped and sat on a bench, leaning on his knees, his hands covering his face. And he wept.

He had no idea how long he had been on the bench, except to know that he was chilled to the bone, and shivering uncontrollably. He looked around and saw a pub across the road. He walked over, went in and took a seat by a small table at the very back, in a relatively quiet corner. It was late, and there weren't many people still in the pub, a fact for which he was thankful. He shivered again, and pulled his arms across himself, trying to hunker further down into his coat, his hat still almost covering his eyes.

"What are ya drinkin'?"

Harry glanced up at the sound of the brogue, and met bright green eyes staring at him. "I'll have whatever single malt's around…"

"We have a lot of them, ya know, ya might want to be more specific, sir."

Harry couldn't keep the annoyance from his tone, "It really doesn't matter, miss, whatever you fetch is fine."

She sized up the stranger bundled in a long black coat, still wearing his gloves and hat. What little she could see of his face looked cold and pale, and while he tried to hide the shivering, she could see how chilled he was by his demeanor.

"I'll make it a good one, then. It'll help warm you."

He nodded and watched her head over to the bar, exchanging a few words with a man in black who had just walked in. The man ordered a beer, which she poured, he paid her and then she set about finding a scotch. She returned shortly thereafter to Harry with a generous pour of a quality single malt. He downed it in one swallow and set the glass down, staring at her.

"Another one then?" She asked.

He nodded and she once again fetched a glass, setting it in front of him. She walked away and observed him from the bar, noting that this time he drank it slower, although it was still gone in a matter of minutes. Without asking she brought him one more and set it down in front of him. He looked up at her and she saw beautiful hazel-bronze eyes that were more haunted than any she had ever seen.

"Thank you," was all he said.

She smiled at him. "You're welcome."

She made her way back to the bar and watched him slowly sipping this one, noting that he had removed his gloves, and that his hands trembled as he raised the glass to his full lips. He seemed burdened, as if he was holding up the weight of the world on his shoulders, and the way he seemed to stare into the floor made her think he had recently left someone behind or worse. She slid her hand into her pocket and fingered the 50-pound note, smiling; it wasn't such a bad job, this. She glanced over at Harry again, straightening her hair and clothes, and she observed that he looked so very lonely; no, worse, he looked so very alone. Once more she walked over to his table, and he glanced briefly up at her, but he said nothing.

"My shift's almost over, if you want to go somewhere…"

His eyes darted up to hers, quickly sizing her up, his voice barely a deep whisper in response. "I don't think so, love," he intoned, "and you should be more careful about approaching men in pubs… I could be some kind of weir—" He stopped himself as the pain of the memory stabbed his sad heart. He looked down into his drink, finished with whatever else the petite Irish barmaid might have in her head. "You know nothing about me; I could be a dangerous criminal," he finally said, "you shouldn't be so bold."

"But you're not."

He glared at her. "You don't bloody know that."

"Yes, yes I do." He rolled his eyes and sighed in exasperation, once again turning his attention to his drink. She sat down next to him. "Don't you want to know how I know?"

He looked up at her, the irritation in his eyes apparent. "Not particularly, no."

He noticed for the first time how young she was, how her ruby lips pouty in their youth, and how her form-fitting clothing left little to the imagination about the firmness that lie beneath. He inwardly chastised himself for even allowing such a brief train of thought, realizing that he had perhaps taken too much scotch already.

She laid a hand on his forearm, rubbing it lightly. "You're some kind of undercover policeman," she smiled as his eyes met hers. "I can always tell, because you lot carry your remorse around with you like a big ball and chain. That, and ya always look like ya just lost your best friend." Pain flooded him and he looked away, his eyes closing when he felt her hand squeeze his thigh. "It's all right, I like undercover policeman." He said nothing as she slid her hand into his larger one and began caressing his palm. "You don't say much, do you?" When he still said nothing, she continued, "I like to talk…but you don't have to answer."

She took his hat off and set it on the table. She put her hands on either side of his face, caressing it gently until he finally met her eyes with his.

"Why do you like undercover policeman?" He finally asked softly, the amount of scotch he had consumed having lowered his voice.

She leaned in then and kissed him gently on the lips, lingering on their softness before lifting away. "Because they don't kiss and tell."

He smiled then, and she smiled back. "You have a sweet smile, you know," she said, "it speaks of a man who is hiding behind the face he presents to the world; a man who hides a responsibility and a grief that are too much for any one person to bear."

He frowned slightly at her, and she leaned in again, this time kissing him more openly, her lips exploring his, her tongue pushing softly into his warm mouth. Harry moaned softly as her hand seductively slid up his inner thigh while deepening their kiss. He leaned his head back against the wall as she continued to move her lips against his, allowing himself to enjoy the comfort of a nameless soul. Until her hand went too far. He grabbed her wrist, suddenly more sober.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, his breath gasping from stifled desire, "I'm sorry, but I should go." He stood, suddenly realizing he was merely a red-blooded male after all, and he sat back down quickly, embarrassment coloring his face. "Damn."

She took his chin in her hand and gently kissed him again, which did nothing to help calm him. "Let yourself go, Mr. Undercover Policeman…" She stood and held her hand out to him. "I live close by…"

The human part of him, the part of him that ached to be with a woman – and as inebriated as he was, even an inappropriate woman – wanted simply to take her hand, follow her to her flat and lose himself in her body. But his heart wouldn't let him be so shallow, anymore than it would allow him to betray Ruth. And _that_ realization made him sick to his stomach; no matter how many times she rebuked him, he could neither tolerate her kindness nor stomach giving himself to anyone else.

He stood, taking the young woman's hands in his, very lightly kissing her lips. "You are lovely," he smiled sweetly, "very lovely indeed…"

"But you're not coming with me."

"No, I'm afraid I'm not."

"Someone waiting for you at home?"

He shook his head sadly. "Just my little dog."

"It's a shame, you know."

"Probably," he kissed her cheek. "But I'm too old for you anyway." He kissed her forehead, moved past her and walked out of the pub.

She smiled as she watched him go. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you," she mumbled as she cleared his glass from the table.

Harry left the pub and began walking. For a brief moment, he thought about calling his driver to come pick him up, but decided against disturbing the man so late at night; besides, his head felt foggy, and a long walk in the night air would help to clear it. As Harry walked on, he failed to realize that his steps began to fall heavily and out of sync, until they degraded into a stagger. His head started to swim in dizziness and he leaned against a building, trying to regain his balance. He again pushed on, but after a few more steps, with his stomach threatening to revolt, and his equilibrium totally gone, Harry Pearce blacked out.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

She kissed his full lips, and moved down his neck and chest, continuing her trail southward. The click of the digital camera resonated through the room as picture after picture followed her as she mapped Harry's naked body with her lips.

"Keep going, Meghan," the man in black said.

She stopped what she was doing and turned to look at him. "That's going to be difficult, laddie; he's not exactly awake you know…"

"Be creative, lass, you've been well paid. You've made more tonight than you'd make in an entire year serving at a pub."

She smiled then. "It was nice to look online at my bank account and see so much money in there, I'll admit."

"Then get back to earning it, Meghan."

She wasn't sure how she was going to make it look as though the unconscious man was responding to her, but she supposed she could fake it well enough for a still camera. She had a momentary pang of guilt for the man lying naked beneath her; he had seemed a kind enough sort, albeit a very sad soul. But it was only a passing pang, as she thought of the numbers on her now burgeoning bank account; it removed the fleeting guilt as quickly as it had come.

* * *

Meghan sat on the edge of the hotel bed, wrapped in a robe, watching the man in black as he placed the latex tabs on the unconscious man's fingertips.

"What are ya doin' there?"

He didn't look at her as he said, "Getting his fingerprints."

"What for?"

He looked at her then and smiled, causing a shiver to ripple up her spine with the chill of it. "So that I can frame him of course."

He turned his attention back to Harry's hands. He removed his own gloves and gently peeled the latex tabs with tweezers from Harry's fingertips and carefully reversed the thin latex self-adhesing skins, placing each corresponding print on his own fingertips.

"What are ya framin' him for?"

He again kept his attention on his task, not looking at her. "What?"

"What are ya framin' him for?"

He placed the last latex fingertip on his right pinky and looked at her, his chilling smile once again making her very uneasy. "Murder most foul, my dear Meghan, murder most foul."

As the intention of his words filled her, a scream began to rise up from her throat, but it was quelled quickly by his hands tightening around her neck, and she never made a sound.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks for the reviews, guys, Erm, "Connectthedots," try re-reading chapter one, the clues are there. :)

* * *

He slowly became aware of his head pounding and he groaned as he tried to rouse himself. He rolled over and opened his eyes, quickly slamming them shut again to block out the brightness of the sunlight streaming in through the window. Instinctively his hand rose to his head, wishing that the pounding would stop, and he groaned. He felt the weight of four paws landing on the bed next to his head, and he rolled over on his back, groaning again from the pounding in his skull. He opened his eyes slightly as he felt the licking of a rough tongue, and he reached up to pet Scarlet.

"There's a good girl, Scarlet. I'll walk you shortly."

The Jack Russell curled up next to his side, her tail continuing to beat against the duvet. He hadn't remembered that he had _that_ much to drink at the pub, but given the way he felt, he surmised that he must have. And he frowned as a memory floated into his mind. He left the pub, began to walk and then… And then, what? He couldn't recall. He obviously made it home, but Harry couldn't remember how or when he arrived there. It had been years since he had consumed enough alcohol to lose a few hours. He reached to his side and pet Scarlet for a moment, then dragged himself up from the bed and headed into the bathroom.

As Harry became more awake, he noticed a general ache in his groin, as though he had been mishandled; and again he frowned at the fact that he couldn't remember what had happened the night before. Ignoring the discomfort he felt, he headed into the kitchen to feed Scarlet. And he realized he was two hours late to work.

"Shit," he growled as he put food in Scarlet's bowl. Heading back upstairs, he again was reminded of the slightly swollen and achy feeling between his legs. And he stopped on the steps: the little Irish barmaid. Had he gone home with her? He shook his head. No, he distinctly remembered leaving the pub, alone. He went into his bedroom and yet another realization hit him: he was two hours late for reporting on the Grid, but no one had called him?

He couldn't remember the last time he had seen his mobile. Harry began to look for it, and finally found it on the floor, just under the bed. He retrieved it and realized it was off, which at least explained why no one had called him– but what about his home phone? He walked over to the phone and picked it up; there was a dial tone. Shrugging he set it back down, and then looked it over and realized that the ringer had been turned off. Harry swallowed hard: something was very wrong; he could feel it in his bones.

Switching his cell back on, he was greeted with all kinds of alert sounds: he had voicemail, email, and text messages. He hit the speaker button on the cell and let the messages play as he pulled out a suit for the day.

"Harry, it's Lucas. You missed the morning briefing. Is everything okay? Let us know."

"It's Lucas again. Where the hell are you?"

"Harry, it's Beth. Look, can you just send one of us a text or something? We're getting worried about you."

"Harry…it…it's Ruth. Where are you? Why aren't you responding to anything? We've all tried to call you, we've sent email and text messages, but no one's heard from you. Look, as soon as you get this, would you please call in, I'm… we're becoming concerned."

There was a part of him that felt vindicated in regard to the worry he could hear coloring her voice, and that was followed by immediate remorse for enjoying the fact that she was concerned. It was childish of him, and he knew it, yet there was some recess of his heart that lived for those moments in which Ruth lost control of her carefully guarded exterior of ice, and he would catch a glimpse of warmth in his direction. He glanced at the time stamp of the message and realized that it was an hour old. He was surprised that she just hadn't – and the doorbell rang, interrupting his train of thought.

He smiled slightly, unable to stop himself. Of course she was now at his front door because he was yet to respond. Then it struck him: what in the hell was he going to use an excuse for why he had been delayed? He glanced at himself in the hallway mirror as he walked toward the front door, and he realized he looked like death. And he smiled – he would simply tell her he wasn't feeling well. It was, after all, the truth, he wasn't feeling at all well. She didn't need to know _why._

Harry opened the door, and was taken aback by the three rather burly plods standing on his doorstep.

"Sir Harry Pearce?" The tallest one said.

"Yes," Harry replied, his eyes narrowing at their rather foreboding demeanor.

"You'll have to come with us, sir."

"Why's that?"

"You're under arrest, sir."

Harry laughed. "For what? Being late to work?"

"No sir," the burly policeman replied, "for the murder of Meghan Mills."

"The murder… of… who?"

"Meghan Mills, sir."

"I don't know anyone by that name."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Pearce, but you are going to have to come with us."

"This is ridiculous. I don't know who or what you're talking about."

"Come along, sir, come quietly, eh?"

Harry glared at them. "Look, I don't think you really want to get into this, officer."

"If you're referring to the fact that you're British Security Services, sir, we are quite aware." Harry looked dumbfounded, so the man continued, "They were the ones who identified your DNA."

The first hint of panic that something incredibly wrong and foul was descending upon him, caused his voice to rise in both pitch and volume. "My DNA… what the hell are you talking about?"

"Louisa Ramsey from Security Services contacted us after our DNA database search red-flagged an MI-5 match, which of course we couldn't access."

Harry felt his heart drop into his stomach. "Louisa Ramsey…"

_My God, Ruth…_

"Please come with us Mr. Pearce, quietly."

Harry sighed heavily as the officers handcuffed his hands behind his back. The lead officer turned to a team waiting a few feet away and nodded; they quickly moved toward Harry's front door.

"What do you think you're doing?" Harry's indignant voice barked.

"We've a warrant, Mr. Pearce."

"You've a warrant… on what grounds?"

"I told you sir, your DNA was identified from the murder scene, and your fingerprints were all over the hotel room."

"Hotel room… what hotel room?"

"Look, Mr. Pearce, our commanding officer will present you with details when we arrive at the detention center."

"Detention center? We're not going to—"

"—Sir, this is standard procedure when one of you lot gets in trouble, and I dare say you know that already."

He pulled Harry from the steps and toward a waiting patrol car, but Harry stubbornly stopped walking.

"You said you found my DNA at the murder scene…"

"Yes."

"What, blood, saliva, what?"

"Semen, sir."

And Harry felt sick as he remembered the discomfort in his lower extremities. He shuddered to think what had been done to him to get that kind of DNA. His feet barely moved as the young officer pulled him toward the car, his entire being stunned with the information. His mind raced trying to place the name Meghan Mills, but he couldn't. As the officer pushed him into the back of the patrol car, Harry felt his heart sinking into a deep despair. _His semen._ And then his mind slammed with one thought: Ruth. Did she actually think him capable of… of… he still wasn't even sure what it was he was supposed to have done.

As the car pulled from the curb heading toward the high security detention center used for terrorists and spooks in trouble, he felt a revolt from his stomach that he knew he couldn't stop.

"Pull over!"

"We can't sir."

"I'm going to be sick," Harry growled.

The officer sitting next to him in the back took one look at the spook's face and knew he wasn't lying.

"Pull over, Tom," he ordered.

The car pulled over, and the officer in the front passenger seat got out, opened Harry's door and barely got him out in time for Pearce to fall to his knees, vomiting violently on the curb. The lead officer got out of the car after the siege continued for several minutes, and glaring at his junior officer, knelt next to Harry, steadying him with a hand to his shoulder.

"Easy, mate," he said softly. He felt Harry shudder under his hand as his body began to shiver uncontrollably. "Can you get a blanket from the back, Bill?"

The young officer's eyes narrowed at the man. "What? You going soft on this spook, Robert?"

Harry couldn't control the vomiting which began violently again, the one called Robert holding him with both hands by the shoulders.

Robert looked up at Bill. "Just get the bloody blanket, Bill, and if you want to report me for having compassion, so be it."

Shaking like a leaf, Harry leaned back into the officer's grip.

"Done, mate?"

Pearce nodded weakly. "Think so…"

"All right then."

Robert helped him onto his feet, and wrapped the blanket Bill handed him around Harry's shoulders, gently guiding him back into the car. As they once again pulled away from the curb, Harry leaned his head back against the seat. But no matter how hard he tried to force his mind into remembering the events of the previous night, the last thing he could recall was leaving the pub. Whatever happened after that Harry Pearce could not honestly say, except to know that he was in deep, deep trouble.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

_Thanks to all who have reviewed - always appreciated. Hopefully another chapter today, but not until late tonight, so many of you won't see it until tomorrow morning. :) Also, a warning on this chapter: while there is nothing graphic depicted in terms of action, there are a few things that might not be appropriate for everyone, so read only if you're not overly sensitive to mature topics..._

* * *

The crown prosecutor opened the file that contained the preliminary evidence in the Meghan Mills case, and perused it one item at a time. There of course were the pictures from the crime scene – a naked woman lying on an upscale hotel bed, strangled, her legs spread wide, her hands tied to the bedpost, a look of utter shock and horror permanently frozen on her pale face, and close-up pictures of the bruises around her neck that bore the fingerprints of the suspect. A crime scene investigation report that matched fingerprints all over the room with that of one Sir Henry James Pearce; the preliminary coroner's report, which not only matched the fingerprints on the victim's neck with that of one Sir Henry James Pearce, but also the semen found in her vagina, which matched his DNA.

Michael Allen then looked at the items found in the suspect's house during the search: pictures of Pearce and the victim in extremely compromising positions; bank records of large fiscal transfers from his account to the victim's, intimating that she was possibly blackmailing him with the photos; and finally the record of an extremely fine career with British Intelligence. Michael Allen pursed his lips as he mulled over the facts of the man's behavior over a lifetime and the overwhelming and compelling evidence that pointed to a conviction as a cold-blooded killer; a man who carried on with a barmaid, was blackmailed and then after apparently tying her to a bed and raping her, killed her with his bare hands.

And it didn't sit well with Michael Allen, crown prosecutor of a case that sought justice for an obscure barmaid in a pub, from a prime suspect who was already a ghost in society. Allen shook his head.

"Bloody hell spooks," he muttered as he closed the file.

He looked at his watch; it was time to interview this incongruous man who operated from the shadows. Perhaps that would shed some kind of light on what didn't make a tremendous amount of sense, yet at the same time appeared to be an open and shut case. But then, Michael Allen had learned over the years not to take _anything_ at face value; it could be one's undoing.

* * *

Ruth sat at her desk, staring at her computer screen, yet seeing nothing. Every now and again her eyes would flick up and glance in through the windows of his office, which was being torn up by Internal Affairs. How was any of it possible? The flagged personnel file as a DNA match for a murder case; and not just any DNA, but a sample of DNA taken from inside a woman: and Ruth bolted from her desk running for the bathroom. She made it just in time to empty the contents of her stomach. She rinsed her mouth out with water and her eyes caught her own reflection in the mirror. She thought that he had loved her, at least at one time. Hell, he had asked her to marry him. Had it all been a lie? Tears spilled from her eyes down over her cheeks, and she covered her mouth to stifle a sob as her legs gave way and she sank down on the floor under the sink. She pulled her knees to her chest, burying her head into them, her arms wrapping around her legs, her plaintive sobs echoing against the cold tile of the desolate room.

It wasn't him. It couldn't be him. Not Harry. Not him.

She knew he was capable of killing; she knew that – he was a man who was capable of many things. But killing like this? It wasn't the man she knew. She raised her head and wiped her tears on her sleeve. Slowly she rose and washed her face of the salty streaks, drying it with a paper towel from the dispenser. She glanced at her watch; it was time to talk with the only man who might be able to help her get to the bottom of this – the only man left whom she could trust…

* * *

The room was sterile and cold. Harry had been stripped down to his boxers and t-shirt. It wasn't really a surprise: standard operating procedure with terrorists and agents gone bad. That thought made him cringe; he hadn't gone bad. But somebody had set him up, and apparently made a very fine job of it because here he sat. No one had been to see him since he had been processed and stripped. It was the "cooling-off" period; the one in which you leave the suspect alone for several hours with nothing, allowing panic and fear to grip his heart and soul. Harry shivered: he was not only cold and fearful, but he still felt perfectly dreadful. And that's when his foggy mind that had been dulled by far too many surprises was pinged with its first clear thought. He had been drugged. He had to have been. That would explain the blackout, lack of short-term memory and the violent revolt of his stomach.

Harry stood and walked over to the door, pounding on it. "Hello, hello… I need to speak with someone. Come on. Hello…"

But there was nothing and no one. He slammed his fist into the steel door and let his forehead rest against it. Time was of the essence; depending upon what kind of drug had been used, every hour that passed meant traces of it were dwindling. He wished the kind plod who had taken pity on him was around, but Harry knew he was long gone. There would only be Security Services Internal Affairs dealing with him now; that and a solicitor from the Crown Prosecutor's Office. And what of his team? By now they must all know he'd been arrested; he wondered if they were working to clear him. Hell, he wondered how long he'd have to wait before he was even told exactly what evidence there was against him. Or for that matter, exactly what it was that he supposedly perpetrated.

And then he recalled that it was Ruth who turned over his name to the plods in the first place. Did she actually think he would have killed some innocent? Harry shook his head at the idea that Ruth hadn't even given him the benefit of the doubt. But then, they had not been getting on well at all of late. He felt the first pang of fear: if Ruth didn't believe in him, how would he ever convince anyone else? He closed his eyes, his breathing becoming heavy. It hurt. Knowing that she didn't love him and wouldn't marry him had been horrific, but nothing in comparison to discovering that she clearly no longer trusted or believed in him as a person. God but that hurt. He hadn't thought that she could really hurt him anymore than she had in the churchyard; how wrong he had been. He fought viciously against the emotion that was welling up in his chest, trying to work its way up toward his throat and eyes. Not here. He could not give in here. If he showed any signs of weakness, whatever they were planning on doing to him would be ten times worse.

_Ruth._

He swallowed hard several times, trying to shove the anguish back down toward his chest; his heart was already shattered, a little more grief couldn't possibly matter. He wished he could see her and talk to her. He needed to see her sparkling eyes, sweet smile and he needed to hear her voice. If he could just explain to her that someone was setting him up… But then, that's precisely what hurt so much: why hadn't she arrived at that very conclusion? Why hadn't she given him the benefit of the doubt and at least spoken with him before talking to the police? He tried to focus on the anger, for that would be far better at the moment than the grief that had filled him. But the grief and anguish was all he could feel. That and the utter loneliness of a man who was wrongly accused and abandoned by everyone he thought he had known.

But Harry was not about to break down in front of anyone now. Damn them all. Damn _her_.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

She paced the outer waiting room of Towers' office for the hundredth time, and turned again toward the assistant behind the desk.

"How much longer will he be?"

"I don't know, miss, sorry. He said you should wait."

Ruth's face took on a hardened look, but she bit her tongue and turned away from the wisp of a girl. She paced on, back and forth until really, she had had enough. Without so much as a hint, she moved quickly to the door of Towers' office, opening it before the young assistant could catch her. Towers and a handsome man in his early 40s stared up at her.

"Home secretary," the wispy assistant blurted, "I'm so sorry, but I couldn't stop her."

Towers sized up the look on Ruth's face and knew he wasn't going to keep her waiting another moment. "It's all right, Heather," he smiled at the young girl, "leave us, and close the door please, thanks."

The young assistant did as she was told, leaving Ruth with the two men. Towers stood then, walking round his desk, coming to a stop right in front of Evershed. He stood closer than she expected, and she could see the concern and the pity in his eyes; and that made her even more angry.

Towers spoke gently, "I'm sorry it's taken so long, but—"

"—What's happened to him? Where is he?"

Towers sighed, as he indicated the man with the salt and pepper hair seated in the chair. "I'd like to introduce you to Michael Allen; he's with the Crown Prosecutor's Office."

The man rose, and as he shook Ruth's hand, she couldn't help but notice his chocolate colored eyes and his sweet smile.

Towers tried to continue with the introductions, indicating Ruth. "This is, erm…"

And she realized the home secretary wasn't sure what name to use.

She extended her hand. "Louisa Ramsey, Mr. Allen."

He shook her hand, and lingered a moment longer than was necessary, causing Ruth to frown and pull her hand back.

"You're with the security services then," he stated. "and that's your real name, is it?" He asked cheekily.

Noticing the glare on Ruth's face, Towers cleared his throat and moved back to the chair behind his desk. "Ms. Ramsey is erm, a… friend of Sir Harry's."

"I see," was all Allen said.

"Ms. Ramsey," Towers continued, "do take a seat." He waited for her to sit down then said, "I'm afraid Mr. Allen here is in charge of prosecuting Harry's case. It's a dreadful business…"

"Louisa Ramsey," Allen said with renewed interest, "you're the one who called the police when Pearce's personnel file was red-flagged."

Ruth looked down at her hands. "Y-yes, yes I was." Then her eyes bore into the man. "I'm not proud of that, Mr. Allen." She licked her lips. "As a m-matter of fact, I'm feeling rather guilty about it."

"I shouldn't, if I were you, Ms. Ramsey."

Ruth's eyes narrowed further. "Really? And why's that?"

Towers interjected, "Perhaps we should have some tea—"

Ire beginning to fill him, Allen cut the home secretary's thought off. "The evidence is rather compelling, Ms. Ramsey, I assure you."

"Well, I haven't seen any of it, Mr. Allen" Ruth countered, "except to know that Harry's file was flagged."

"I have half a mind to show it to you, Ms. Ramsey, but I don't think it quite proper for you to have to view some of it…"

"Oh, Mr. Allen, really. Whilst your chivalry might possibly be charming if I were some delicate flower wilting in the heat, I can quite assure you that I've seen things that would sicken the most hearty of warriors."

Allen began digging in his bag to retrieve the evidence files, and Towers had to hide the smile that was tugging at the corners of his mouth; leave it to Ruth Evershed to goad the man into showing her the crown's evidence against Harry. If there were any chance of finding something foul afoot, Ruth would be the one to uncover it, of that he was certain, and it was of that for which he silently prayed. But the thought was fleeting when Towers remembered the photographs.

"Erm," the home secretary uttered, "perhaps this isn't such a good idea, Mr. Allen."

Ruth shot the home secretary a look that would have plundered the bravest of souls. Yet as Allen moved to hand over the files, Towers intercepted them.

"Mr. Allen," he pitched his voice low, the command in his tone unmistakable, "would you please excuse Ms. Ramsey and I for a few moments?"

"But—"

"—My assistant will be happy to fetch you some tea, should you wish to have some whilst you wait, outisde."

Seeing no way around the request, Allen nodded curtly, got up and walked out, closing the door behind him. Ruth looked quizzically at Towers as he stood and walked over to sit in the seat next to her that Allen had just vacated. And she felt the first twitch of mortifying fear.

Towers sighed as he opened the file. "Ruth," he said as gently as he could, "I must warn you that these photos might prove to be, well, difficult for you."

She looked deeply in his eyes. "But home secretary—"

He placed a soft hand over hers, stopping her. "Ruth," he said even more gently, "I know that there has been…something between you and Harry for some time." She started to protest, but he squeezed her hand once again silencing her before he continued. "Save it. While my wife tells me I'm a hopeless romantic at times, my senses have not deceived me. I've seen the two of you interact on many occasions, and whilst I can't pretend that I understand the nuances or particulars, I am an excellent judge of character and subtleties; one does not rise in politics without sharp powers of observation, my dear. So save us both the grand denial, hmm?"

Ruth said nothing, and eventually just nodded her capitulation.

"Good girl," Towers said softly. He handed her the files. "Now I'm going to let you look at these alone whilst I deal with that sod of a solicitor outside my door. There's a box of tissue on the table over there." He looked into her eyes. "Next to the scanner."

Her eyes darted to meet his, and the silent understanding was struck. He squeezed her hand as he stood. As Towers headed toward the door, Ruth's voice stopped him, causing him to turn back to face her.

"Thank you, home secretary…"

"You might not thank me after you see the files, Ruth. I'll be back with Allen in about 20 minutes."

"Yes sir," Ruth said as the door closed.

* * *

Tears streamed down her face as she scanned the last pages of the evidence file, sending it electronically to the Grid. The photographs did not look like they had been manipulated and Ruth couldn't bear the thought of Harry and the woman in the pictures, who was at least half his age, performing such an act of intimacy on him. It turned her stomach. Her hands shook as she reassembled the file, setting it on Towers' desk, quickly clearly the memory of the scanner; she made a mental note to tell Tariq to wipe any record of the transfer from the MI-5 mainframe. Even though the young man had never admitted he could do such a thing, Ruth knew damned well that he could indeed. Her hands shook uncontrollably as she sat back down in the chair, as if she'd never moved.

She didn't want to believe what she'd seen or read, but the evidence was overwhelmingly against him. Yet, clearly Towers was not any more convinced, as he had put Ruth on to scanning the documents so that Section D would have a chance to analyze all of it carefully. Perhaps they were both just being loyal to the point of absurdity; no matter how painful i might be, Ruth knew she had to consider the fact that maybe the rejection and subsequent rebuffs she had heaped on him had finally broken him. Maybe she had been the one who pushed him over the edge.

No. _No._ She couldn't believe this of him. Yes, he had killed in cold-blood to avenge the deaths of two of their colleagues, but kill over blackmail? Certainly not. But how irrational and bloody contradictory for her to think that somehow it wasn't as bad, his killing to avenge both Ros and Adam, versus killing to put an end to blackmail. Yet Ruth could not accept that Harry Pearce would a) sleep with some barmaid half his age or b) rape and kill her after paying her off to keep her silence over compromising pictures. None of it made any damned sense. Not to Ruth.

As she heard the door to the office open, and the voices of Towers and Allen, she wiped the remnants of the tears from her face. No, something was completely wrong about this, despite the way it looked: it had to be. Ruth couldn't accept the idea that Harry could be guilty of something so heinous. She had to see him. Yes, she had to see him. She had to look in his eyes; and then she would know for certain...

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Harry started at the sound of the metal door cranking open. He looked toward it and saw two large men bringing in a table, and right behind them, a smaller man with two chairs.

"Over here, Pearce," the big burly one said, "sit down."

Harry just sat where he was on the floor and glared at them defiantly. The largest of the men walked over to him and grabbed him roughly by the collar of the jumpsuit. He hauled Harry up and dragged him over to the table, shoving him hard into the chair.

He leaned down into Harry's ear, whispering, "You're not in charge anymore, _Sir_ Harry; you're just another spook who's got himself in trouble. And from what I hear, you'll be spending the rest of your life behind bars or worse. You're ass is mine, now, and you'll do as I say."

Harry turned his head to look the man in the eye, but then insolently looked away, setting his jaw tightly. The burly guard's fist connected brutally a moment later with Harry's chin, and blood spurted from his mouth to the floor. Harry once again turned to look viciously at the guard, calmly spitting out a tooth that had broken free from the blow, watching as the tooth landed at the guard's feet.

"If you know what's good for you, you'll answer when spoken to."

Harry smiled annoyingly. "You shouldn't end a sentence with a preposition, or didn't you learn that one in school?"

The guard punched Harry again in the jaw, and this time Harry took longer recovering from the blow.

"Keep your mouth shut, Pearce," the guard said, "the crown prosecutor will be in to talk to you shortly." He leaned into Harry's ear once more. "There's no one here to protect you, Pearce; no more ivory tower of MI-5. There's just you and a bunch of filthy terrorists, and as I see it, you're all the same."

"Except that I'm a British citizen with the right to a fair trial…"

The guard grabbed Harry's left shoulder, squeezing it painfully, causing Harry to wince. "No, you're a ghost in this society, and from what I hear the evidence against you is overwhelming."

The guards left the room, and Harry slumped in the chair. He tried to flex his hands, which remained in plastic restraints behind his back, but it didn't really help. His shoulders ached from the unnatural position of his arms and hands for so long, and his wrists hurt from the plastic cutting into them. His head felt slightly foggy from the blows, and two hours later, he had almost nodded off when the door to the room finally opened again. A man in his early 40s with salt and pepper hair walked in, looking not only debonair, but also quite like the cat who ate the canary. The large burly guard who had had his way with Harry earlier entered with him, taking up a post just inside the door.

"I'm Michael Allen, Mr. Pearce, with the Crown Prosecutor's Office," the man said as he set a large file folder on the table and sat in the chair opposite Harry.

Harry simply nodded at the man, waiting for him to speak again.

"I trust that they haven't mistreated you," he said, noticing the ugly bruise forming on Harry's jaw and cheek. When Harry just continued to stare at him, he continued, "You know where you are?"

"The Category A military detention center just outside of London, I should think," Harry stated calmly.

"Your MI-5 record indicated that you are far above-average intelligence, and right it was."

"I'd like to speak to an attorney, Mr. Allen."

Allen smiled at him. "Oh my dear Mr. Pearce, you know damned well that that isn't going to happen. You've not been arrested for petty theft in a market stall."

"So the fact that I'm a British citizen with rights means nothing then…"

Allen chuckled. "You know as well as I that you are no ordinary British citizen, Mr. Pearce. When one of you lot gets into it, you can't really expect to have a phone call coming your way or representation waiting to speak with you."

"The very fact that I'm here and not with the local plods tells me British Security Services have already removed all trace of this from the local level systems and that this is going to be handled internally. That and the blerts surrounding me who I'm sure belong to British Securities IA." Allen nodded his approval at Harry's acumen, so Pearce continued, "So why are you here? I'm not about to give you a bloody thing, so don't waste my time," Harry spat, "No one's even bothered to inform me of exactly why it is that I've been taken into custody."

"As I'm sure the policeman who actually arrested you already mentioned, you were paced into custody for the rape and murder of Meghan Mills, Mr. Pearce. You know, the little twinkie you've been keeping on the side who has been blackmailing you. Quite a typical motive for murder, that, you know. I would have thought one of you MI-5 spooks might have kept it a tad less common."

"I don't even know who Meghan Mills is, Mr. Allen. And what exactly was she supposed to have been blackmailing me over?"

Allen reached into the file folder, yanked out the photos of Harry with Mills and spread them onto the table so that Harry could see them. Harry's eyes widened at the images before him, and suddenly he remembered the way his groin felt when he had awakened that morning; and to his horror, he recognized the girl as the young barmaid from the pub. He was being set-up and not just by anyone, but by someone who worked for security services; most likely by someone he knew. His stomach tightened into knots as he examined the pictures.

"These are fakes, Mr. Allen."

"No, Mr. Pearce, they were not created in Adobe photoshop – that has already been determined by the crimes investigatory unit. The pictures are quite real. Let me help clarify for you: that is you lying naked on the bed, and that young woman who is performing that rather intimate act upon you is Meghan Mills, the woman you raped and killed last night after she'd been blackmailing you for some time."

"That is ridiculous."

"Really Mr. Pearce? There are witnesses who have identified you as having been in the pub where she works; they saw you last night. There are bank records of transfers from your account to hers," he said, slapping the documents on the table in front of Harry. "We found the compromising photos of you with her in your home, and there is of course the semen that was found by the medical examiner in Ms. Mills' womb, your semen, Mr. Pearce, and also the CCTV footage that can place you at the pub and at the hotel, where you killed her."

"I don't deny that I was at the pub last night, or that this woman waited on me there. But until you told me, I didn't even know her name, nor had I ever seen her before last night, much less ever allowed her to do _that_ to me." Harry nodded toward the pictures, indicating what "that" meant. Then he stared into the Allen's eyes with such intensity, it almost hurt. "I've been set-up, Mr. Allen."

"Set-up, Mr. Pearce? You want me to believe that this little barmaid was able to set-up the mighty head of Section D?"

"Of course not. Someone else is obviously pulling the strings…"

"And this someone else managed to get this girl to agree to becoming a murder victim in order to seal your fate? You'll forgive me, Mr. Pearce, if I admit to having some trouble believing that one."

Allen illustrated his point by slapping the pictures of the crime scene and the dead woman in front of Harry. And after looking at the shocking images for a moment, Harry slammed his eyes shut, swallowing hard, the first taste of fear beginning to color his tongue.

"Look, I'm quite certain I was drugged last night. A blood sample should be taken and analyzed—"

"—Mr. Pearce, you don't seem to be quite grasping exactly what's going on here, nor exactly how much trouble you're in."

Harry blinked at the man, and then a moment later, his still fuzzy mind fit the pieces together, and he swallowed, his mouth suddenly feeling as though it were filled with cotton.

His voice was soft and he fought to keep it from trembling, "A tribunal."

"Yes," Allen confirmed.

"Internal Affairs is convening a tribunal, and they've asked you to present the evidence, but the case won't be through the Ministry of Justice to a jury of my peers…"

"On the contrary, Mr. Pearce, it will be to a jury of your peers: everyone on the tribunal is some kind of high-level spook or security services director. But you're right in that this will not take place through Her Majesty's Court Services. I'm afraid your lot's IA office thought you too high-level a spook for parading around publicly; and a Knight of the Realm to boot. Tsk, tsk, Mr. Pearce."

"Are you telling me that I have no right to any kind of defense?"

Allen shrugged. "Well, they'll not let you have a solicitor, not a real one in any case. Mostly at a tribunal, they'll let you ask a fellow spook to represent you when the case is presented."

Harry stared at him then. "You've done this before."

It wasn't a question.

Allen smiled gently at him. "Yes. I am with the crown's prosecution, but that's only—"

"—your legend. You really work for internal affairs, of course."

"Of course," Allen confirmed. "Do you have anyone in mind whom you'd like to call upon?"

And Harry's heart fell. There was no one he could trust to ask to help him; hell, he didn't even know who it was who had set him up – clearly, he could trust no one. Towers he believed in of course, but he could hardly ask the home secretary to represent him in a kangaroo court of security services internal affairs. Harry started to shake his head.

"What about Louisa Ramsey?" Allen's soft voice suggested.

Harry's eyes darted to the younger man's. "Who?"

"Oh come now, Mr. Pearce. I'm sure you recognize the legend. I met her in the home secretary's office earlier today." Harry felt sick as the man continued, "She seemed quite upset by this turn of events. But she didn't seem to be of the opinion that you were capable of such mayhem, I'll grant her that."

Allen let the words sink in, and noticed that Harry's eyes relaxed slightly at the last bit of information.

"That said, she didn't take seeing the evidence all that well," he added with a little too much glee.

"She _saw_ these photos? Ruth _saw_ these?"

"Yes, right there in Towers' office." Allen smiled then, recalling the pretty woman he had met. "So Ruth is her real name…"

The rush of emotions that came at Harry threatened to topple him; had he not already been sitting, he was quite certain that he would have fallen down.

"Oh God…"

His breathing became slightly erratic and for a moment, Allen was afraid the older man might hyperventilate.

"Are you all right, Mr. Pearce?"

"I…"

Harry tried to refocus, but all he could think about was the fact that Ruth had seen the pictures strewn out in front of him on the table. Pictures of him lying naked with another woman, who was doing things to him that he had dreamed of Ruth doing...

"Oh God," was all Harry could utter.

The sudden pallor of Pearce's face worried Allen. "Mr. Pearce, you don't look very well."

"I don't feel well at all at the moment." He looked up at Allen. "I think I'm going to be sick."

Allen turned to the guard. "Mr. Shaw, this man is about to be ill, you'll need to attend to him."

The big burly guard just smiled. "He'll be all right, Mr. Allen, but if I were you, sir, I'd pick up my files and clear the room."

Allen scowled, but having dealt with IA goons before, he knew better than to interfere. He collected the files, put them back into his case and placed a gentle hand on Harry's shoulder.

"I'll let the tribunal know that you have requested to have Ms. Ramsey—erm, Ruth, represent you."

Before Harry could contradict him, the man left. And no sooner was the door closed, Michael Allen heard the sounds of dry retching from behind the door. He shook his head. It was too bad about the old spook; he didn't really seem to be a bad sort. Yet the evidence was so very clear-cut. Then a slight smile lit Allen's lips: _Ruth_. What a beautiful name for a beautiful woman. The idea of seeing her again filled him with warmth. Perhaps this wouldn't be a total loss after all…

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

Tariq looked at Ruth with raised eyebrows when she suggested that he had the ability to wipe the scanned image transfers that tracked documents leaving the home secretary's scanner from the MI-5 mainframe. The fact that he had just done so would never again be referenced. If it helped Harry, than Tariq would do it; the idea that the man he worked with day in and day out was a closet murderer was completely idiotic, and they all knew it. He glanced around the Grid at his colleagues, and he could sense the tension in the air. They had each taken a section of the evidenced documents to analyze. Tariq had drawn the task of investigating the bank transfers. At first look, the transfers certainly made Harry look guilty as sin; how could he not have noticed his bank account losing so much money over the past month? It didn't make sense.

Tariq was certain that the transfers had been manipulated all at once from one terminal and very recently; he just had yet to find proof of it. Beth had been charged with the task of investigating the dead girl, Meghan Mills, from childhood background to her untimely demise. Dimitri was working on the blackmail pictures themselves, double checking that they had not been faked, and trying to formulate a plausible execution for how they were done. Lucas was in the field; the pub, the hotel, the dead girl's apartment, and Harry's house. Ruth was double-checking the medical examiner's findings: Tariq did not envy that, not at all. It was, after all, the most damning evidence, and by far the most shocking. He glanced over at Ruth, and he felt a pang of sympathy. She looked drawn and pale, worry lining her face. How could she not have been deeply wounded just by looking at the photos on top of discovering that the coroner claimed a DNA match for Harry?

At the very least, the idea of Harry being involved in any of it was horrific, and unthinkable. And yet, on some level, Tariq knew that all of it had shaken the team to the very core. If he were to be completely honest with himself, he would have to acknowledge that even he had to school himself against the idea of Harry's guilt after viewing all of the evidence. It was compelling, overwhelming and at face value, rock solid. Their work to uncover the truth was an immense task and one that needed to be completed quickly.

* * *

Lucas walked into the hotel as if he was already a registered guest. He smiled at the concierge as he walked past, his expensive grey suit making him look as if he belonged amidst the businessman moving in and out of the lobby, the briefcase in his hand appearing as though it contained benign paperwork instead of the tools of his trade. He made his way to the seventh floor, and down the hallway until he stood in front of room 709. He pulled a device from his briefcase that was a hotel card key attached to a small pda. He inserted the card key and waited while the device cycled through the codes until he heard the click of the door unlocking and the green light illuminating on the key card panel.

He walked in, closing the door behind him. The room had been dusted for prints, and shaken down by the local plods; but Lucas made it his business to carefully go over every inch of the room himself, retaking fingerprints with equipment from his briefcase, and searching every crevice. He found nothing particularly out of the ordinary until he searched the bathroom, and stuck between the bowl and siphon was an incredibly thin, small needle attached to a syringe. Adjusting his latex glove, Lucas plunged his hand into the bowl and carefully pulled out the syringe, placing it in a plastic bag and putting it in his briefcase. He scoured the rest of the space, finding nothing else of interest. Placing everything back into his bag, Lucas opened the door, and checking that there was no one in the hallway, quietly left the room.

* * *

Beth yawned, feeling more tired than she had in awhile. She had found nothing that unusual about the upbringing or schooling of Meghan Mills. Born in Dublin, the young girl came from a relatively poor family, attending public schools, passing her exams barely. She had fled an abusive father as soon as she had finished school, coming to London. She had first taken a job as a house cleaner, but as soon as she was old enough, took work as a server in a pub. Mills had moved from one pub to the next, each time trying to upgrade her circumstance and pay. There were no astonishing political ties, no criminal record, only some late payments on credit cards; other than that, Meghan Mills seemed clean as a whistle.

It was irritating to find nothing glaringly out of place at first look. But Beth Bailey was hardly the sort of person who would give up easily. It certainly appeared that Harry's freedom depended upon the team digging and figuring out how this farce came to pass; and a farce Beth was certain that it was – she could simply not accept that Harry Pearce was guilty of that which he was being accused. Not that Beth thought he was angelic; she knew better than that, but rape and murder of some barmaid? No. And the images she had seen on the photos came rushing up in her mind's eye and Beth had to steel herself. It was so difficult to see hard evidence of that type; evidence that was so compelling as to cast a small but shameful amount of doubt on Harry within his own team. And Beth knew she could not honestly claim that she had not at first found the evidence against him to be overwhelming; it indeed was, however, her loyalty to the man who had given her a second chance was unswerving in the end.

She glanced over at Ruth, who looked exhausted and shaken to the core. Beth felt such sorrow for Ruth; how could she have glanced upon the photos of Harry and Mills at all? How could she not have bolted from the room, screaming obscenities and sobbing like a crestfallen dove? Even if it turned out—_when_ it turned out, she corrected herself, that the evidence was falsified, how would Ruth ever rid herself of those images and be able to look Harry in the eyes again? Beth sighed and put her attention back on the task at hand.

* * *

Ruth's phone lit up with a text message, and so surprised was she at the source, she had to look again at the sender's ID. She read the text and looked at the time; she had to hurry. Grabbing her coat and bag, Ruth headed for the pods, turning back only to speak to Beth.

"I need to meet an asset," she said quickly, "I'll be back."

Before Beth could respond, Ruth was gone.

* * *

The wind blowing across the Thames was bitterly cold, and Ruth pushed herself further down into her heavy coat, and she waited, wondering why the clandestine location instead of meeting at Whitehall. It was more than just a little chilly, and she didn't fancy having to dawdle around waiting. After a few minutes, she saw the slightly rotund figure walking toward her.

"Home secretary," Ruth said, greeting the man.

"Ruth," he said, taking her hand in his for a quick squeeze. "You all right, then?"

"I'm fine, sir, yes."

"Good, good."

"Any news of Harry?"

"Mr. Allen spoke with him earlier this afternoon."

When Towers didn't continue, she prodded, "I-is he all right?"

"More or less, yes."

"What does that mean, sir?"

"Ruth," Towers guided her to sit down on a nearby bench. "Harry is being treated as an enemy of the state, and as such, he has been put into the hands of Security Services Internal Affairs. He's been sent to the Category A Detention Center just outside London."

Her eyes filled with panic. "W-why was he taken there? He's not a terrorist."

"No, but he's a high-level officer within MI-5 who has been accused of an horrendous act."

Her voice began to rise in pitch, "Accused, yes; I thought it was still innocent until proven guilty in this country, or has that changed?"

"Ruth, I know that this has all been tremendously upsetting—"

"—_Upsetting_? You think this has merely been 'upsetting?'" Ruth's eyes glared darkly into his. "A man has been falsely accused and incarcerated—"

"—How do you know that?" Towers boomed at her.

"W-what?"

"How do you know that he has been falsely accused? You've seen the evidence against him, have you proof that it's all an egregious error?"

She stared at him with incomprehension; surely he didn't mean to suggest that Harry was guilty?

"We…we don't have proof that he's been setup yet, no, but we will find it. Please tell me you don't believe that he actually did this; surely you know him better than that, home secretary."

"I think the world of the man, it's true; however, I cannot just turn a blind eye to the evidence. Just because you feel guilty at the way you've battered Harry's heart—"

Ruth stood, ire filling her. "—How dare you. I don't care that you're the home secretary. How dare you say something like that to me. There is nothing between me and Harry; there never was."

Towers stood, matching her anger. "Oh for God's sake, Ruth. Everyone in the damned Service knows about you and Harry—"

"—What? W-what are you saying?"

Ruth was mortified to think that there had been discussions of this nature about her. And about him. How in the hell was she supposed to face anyone after this? Had they been accused of having an affair? It had been one date, several years ago. Dear God, the embarrassment and shame of it all…

Towers took a calming breath upon seeing the look of absolute fright and dismay on Ruth's face.

"Ruth," he said very gently, "I'm sorry. I let my anger get the best of me. I had no right to say that—"

"—No, no you didn't," she replied, her voice as cold as ice.

And Ruth observed him for a moment, taking a good look at the sad sincerity in the home secretary's eyes. And she let out a breath of air that she hadn't even realized she'd been holding.

"I'm sorry, sir. I shouldn't have blown up at you like that. It's just… just…"

"Yes?" He could see she didn't want to say her mind, and he gently touched her arm. "Ruth, it's okay to say whatever it is you really think, I can assure you that it won't leave my confidence. Not even to Harry."

Her eyes darted to his, and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she could trust this man; they both could.

"Harry and I really have not ever been together, home secretary. We…we went on one date, once, a long time ago."

"And since then you gave up your existence here to save him and his career… which you'd do for…everyone on the team?"

She looked away, clearing her throat. "Yes, well…"

"Yes, well," he echoed.

He smiled, realizing she was not about to admit anything to him. He put an arm around her shoulders and they began to walk slowly along the Thames, his security team walking at a discreet distance behind.

"Harry could use a friend right now, you know."

"Yes, since most of you seemed to have taken away the benefit of the doubt."

"I haven't really," Towers said softly, "it's just that in my position, I can't afford to disregard such compelling evidence; at least not publicly."

"I know," she admitted. "To tell the truth, I've had to grapple quite a bit with that myself. But I can't believe that he would have done such things. I just can't."

"I understand how you feel," Towers said. "Ruth," he stopped walking and faced her. "Harry's not going to have a proper trial with a regular jury and a defense solicitor." He let that sink in before finishing, "I'm afraid that IA has decided to hold a tribunal."

"Oh God, no… home secretary, you know they have the power and precedence to—"

"—Yes, yes, I know," he said quickly. "That's why you have to represent him, Ruth."

"W-what are you talking about?'

"Harry can ask someone from his own section to act as his defense, and he's asked for you."

"He asked for me? Has he taken all leave of his senses? I'm not a lawyer, I don't know how to argue a murder defense case."

"Ruth, if you say no, he'll be on his own. He'll have to face them alone." He looked deeply into her eyes. "We can't let that happen, now can we?"

"We? All due respect sir, but it's not 'we' it's me. I'm assuming that you'll be nowhere in sight when this takes place."

Towers looked away, his voice taking on a rough quality, "Can't be, and you bloody well know it." Then he looked back at her, taking her by the shoulders. "But he needs someone, Ruth. He needs someone he can trust implicitly. He needs someone to believe in him. He needs _you_."

"I-I don't know that I can do it, really I don't."

"Ruth, you took the blame for a murder you didn't commit four years ago and spent three years in Cyprus in order to save him. Are things so different now?" And Towers could see in her eyes that in some ways they were, but he could also see the emotion lying underneath and he played upon it. "Do you not believe in him anymore?"

"Of course I believe in him. Harry's still the best choice to head Section D; he's still the best person to make the impossible decisions."

"So…then it must be that you no longer care what happens to him? You have no feelings at all for him?"

"Oh, home secretary, I have such respect for you, but bugger off!"

He smiled at her then, chuckling lightly. "Ruth…"

"All right, all right," she said, "you win." And then her face turned dreadfully serious. "But you have to promise me that if something goes wrong, you will help me find a way to save his life, no matter what it takes."

"You know we don't execute people in the UK, Ruth," he admonished.

"And you know that the Security Services Internal Affairs play by a different rule book; they've done it before following a tribunal in which the defendant was found guilty. I want your personal assurance, home secretary, whatever it takes to save his life, or I walk away from not only this situation, but MI-5 all together, and I do it now." Tears filled her eyes, but she allowed none to fall. "I can't bear to stick around and fight only to see him die. Do you understand that?"

What Towers understood was the depth of the promise he was making to the woman who had already sacrificed herself once for Harry Pearce. "Yes, whatever it takes, Ruth. You have my word."

Ruth nodded, for she knew that Towers giving his word was as good as gold.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

Okay, so sorry for the HUGE amount of time that lapsed in between updates and for my absentee status as a reader/reviewer as well. I'm afraid my jobs have just taken over as is often the case at this time of year! In any case, here is a fluffy chapter and I'm hoping I will find a little time to finish this one off soon! Cheers to all!

* * *

Harry moaned groggily, as an uncontrollable coughing spasm wracked his body, his cheek pressing harder into the cold stone floor. He shivered violently, and no longer had any sense regarding how long he'd been lying on the floor, clad still only in shorts and a t-shirt, his hands still bound behind his back. The time when he could still feel his shoulders had long since passed, and so dehydrated and hungry was he, his stomach simply cramped with pain. His left eye was swollen shut from the most recent beating he sustained, and the left side of his jaw ached from the first run-in he had with the burly guard. It occurred to him to roll onto his back, but with his hands still behind him, it didn't seem worth the trouble. He thought he heard the steel door to his cell open, and footsteps in high heels coming toward him, but he wasn't sure if he was hallucinating until he heard her horrified voice scream at the guard behind her.

"What the hell have you done to him? My God… Harry? Harry?" He flinched slightly as gentle hands touched him, only to relax when he heard her voice once again. "It's all right, Harry, it'll be all right," she soothed.

Ruth stood again, hands on hips, glaring at the huge guard standing before her. "Get the restraints off of him, now, and I want a cot, pillow and blanket in here, immediately."

He smiled smugly. "I don't take instructions from you."

"Really?" Ruth yanked the phone from her coat pocket. "Shall we see how quickly you do if I phone the home secretary? Shall we find out if you still have a job after that?"

The man frowned at her, and quickly relented as she began to dial a number. "Fine then. But don't blame me if the sod tries to do you like he done that little barmaid."

The ire in Ruth's voice was unmistakable. "Does he look like he can even move to you, much less overpower anyone?"

"I'm just statin' it for the record…"

"Uh-huh. Just get the damned restraints off of him, and the other items I asked for. Oh, and I want a bottle of water and some dry toast." He glared at her as he bent down to remove the restraints on Harry's wrists, but she pushed on. "I am not bluffing about the home secretary. I'll not see Harry mistreated whilst he is in here awaiting some ridiculous tribunal…"

A sharp intake of air emitted from Harry's mouth as the guard released his wrists. The guard grunted as he stood up, the restraints gone, and he said not another word as he walked out the door, slamming it shut behind him. Ruth watched him and then pulling her coat off, she knelt next to Harry. Ruth gently moved his arms from where they seemed frozen in place to a more comfortable position, although he cried out in pain as she slowly rolled him onto his back and covered him with her coat.

"Harry?"

His right eye slowly opened. "Ruth," his weak voice responded, wavering slightly with emotion, "I'm so glad to see you…"

Her brow furrowed in concern as she brushed a hand over his forehead. "I'm sorry they've treated you so badly, Harry. I'll make sure it's a bit easier from here on."

He swallowed hard, trying to make his throat less scratchy. "Scarlet… is she okay?"

"She's with a neighbor, don't worry, she's fine."

He nodded, his good eye closing again. "Sorry, Ruth," he muttered, "so tired…"

She gently rubbed his cheek. "It's all right."

Ruth swallowed back the tears that were threatening to stream down her face; it had never occurred to her that Harry would be treated so poorly by his own government. After a few moments, the door to the room opened and the large guard followed by two others entered with a cot, blanket, pillow and a bottle of water. As they started to leave, Ruth called out to them.

"He needs some help getting to the cot. He's in no shape to do it himself…"

The large guard glared at her, but nodded at the other two, who walked over and roughly picked Pearce up, causing him to cry out from being manhandled.

"Be careful with him," Ruth warned.

The two men gently rested Harry on the cot and handed Ruth her coat. The three men left, and Ruth set her coat on the chair, unfolded the blanket and covered Harry with it. She carefully placed the pillow under his head and picked up the bottle of water. She sat daintily on the edge of the cot, and shook his shoulder.

"Harry? Let's get some water in you, hmmm?"

He stirred slowly, and Ruth put a supporting hand behind his head and poured a little water into his mouth, allowing him to swallow it at his own pace. After several sips, she laid his head back down.

"More?" His voice croaked, still dry from dehydration.

"We need to go slowly, you know that. Too much, too fast and you'll just throw it up, Harry."

"I'm sorry you had to come, Ruth."

She read the fear in his voice. "Did you worry that I wouldn't, Harry?" He stared at her silently, but his tortured eyes held the answer. "Oh Harry, no matter what problems we've had, I still respect you tremendously," she pat his hand through the cover of the blanket, "I would never just abandon you, surely you know this…"

"I guess I wasn't quite sure given the circumstances."

"Don't be daft, Harry…"

His eyes turned an even darker color. "But the pictures Ruth," he looked away, embarrassed, "I didn't… I mean, I wouldn't…"

"Shhh…" She turned his face back toward her, softly caressing his cheek, "Harry, it's okay. I admit that at first sight they…shocked me a bit, but I do know you, at least a little, and the Harry Pearce I know would not find himself in that position with a woman…"

"It's not that I wouldn't find myself in that position with a woman, Ruth, just not _that_ woman." His eyes met hers and it hit him what he'd just said and to whom. "I… I'm… oh damn. I didn't mean that I… with you… it's just that I—"

Ruth stopped him with her fingers across his lips. "Harry, be quiet. Just be quiet." She smiled at him. "I know what you meant. Relax. You're wound up like a top."

"Sorry. It's this place." He swallowed hard and looked into her eyes again. "And the situation. I've been framed for this, Ruth. I don't know who or how, but—"

"—Harry, calm down. It's not going to help you to stay agitated. Here…" Ruth reached gently under his head and squeezed the muscles in his neck with her hands. "Let's just work out some of the tension and let you rest a bit, then we'll talk about who, how and why, all right?"

His eyes quickly filled with shiny tears, and he fought for control. "Do you have any idea how much I need you, Ruth?"

She looked deeply into the amber eyes, and melted. "You just need someone to believe in you right now, Harry. And I do. Believe in you, I mean."

She could feel the muscles in his neck begin to release, so she moved her hands down to his shoulders, moving slower and more deliberately, noting the darkening desire spreading in his eyes as she allowed the movements of her hands and fingers to become more sensual.

His eyes fluttered tiredly and his voice was laced with sleep, "That feels so good, Ruth…"

"Go to sleep for awhile, Harry. I'll be right here, I promise. You need to rest a bit before we talk."

"'kay…" he muttered as his eyelids slipped closed.

Ruth rubbed his neck and shoulders for a few more minutes until she was sure he was in a deep sleep.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

Okay, well, these characters just had their way with me. I had a plan, and they hijacked it. Seriously doesn't happen to me very often, but such is life, I guess! Here they are, such as it is...

* * *

His hand flexed comfortably around the smaller one enclosed in, and as more awareness sharpened his mind, he jolted awake, squeezing the hand in his painfully.

"Harry!" Ruth said, trying to free her hand from his much larger one.

His eyes focused on hers as he came fully awake.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, "for gripping your hand like that…"

"It's all right," she said, rubbing her now bruised hand softly. "Bad dream?"

"No," he uttered, "just a little confused as I woke up, I guess."

Ruth stretched out her back, which was a little stiff from having sat on the edge of the cot for more than two hours while Harry slept.

"How do you feel?" She asked him.

"Better now that you're here," he said in a low, seductive tone, the smile that she hadn't seen in so very long tugging at his full lips.

"I'll bet you say that to all the girls," she teased.

"Yes," his low voice drawled, "all the lovely ladies who come to visit me in military prison."

She smiled at him, patting his arm lightly. "Chin up, Harry, we'll get to the bottom of this, you know."

"The team working on it?"

"Yes, quite diligently."

"But without you there…"

"I'll be back at it tonight, after I leave here." She saw the light in his eyes dim quickly at the prospect of her absence, and she quickly added, "But I'll be back to see you in the morning, eh?"

He smiled sadly, as though their days together were truly numbered. "I'll look forward to it."

"Yes, well," she said as she stood, "we'd better get to the business at hand and talk about the who, what and why of this. If you're up to it, I mean."

He tried in vain to sit up, the grimace of pain suddenly taking over his facial features. "Ohhh, I think I'll just lie still, if you don't mind."

Concern filling her face, Ruth sat back down on the edge of the cot. "We can do this tomorrow morning, if you'd rather rest some more; I can go now and—"

"—No," he answered a little too quickly, his hand gripping her elbow tightly, "no… I can do it now."

She pat the hand holding her arm. "I am going to have to leave at some point, Harry, you know that."

He looked away, his hand slipping gently from its hold on her arm. "I know," he said softly.

"Oh Harry," Ruth's voice was colored with sadness, "I can't remember seeing you so down."

"Sorry," he muttered, forcing himself to smile for her, although she could easily see it never reached his eyes.

She took his hand in hers, caressing it softly. "It's going to be all right, Harry."

"Is it Ruth?" He said flatly, not really expecting an answer.

"Yes." She waited until he met her eyes before she continued, "It really will."

"I used to always believe that, Ruth…" He looked away again, his voice dropping off.

Gently she pulled his chin back toward her so that he had to look at her. "Believe it now, Harry." But she could see that the fight in him was gone; and so was the joy. And on some level, Ruth Evershed knew why it was so. "Look, I know that things have been… difficult ever since Ros… well, you know… Things have been difficult for _both_ of us, Harry. We're damaged, you and I. We're both damaged because of all we've seen and all we've done; there just isn't any way round that, I don't think." His eyes began to tear up, and she caressed his face. "But it doesn't mean that I don't…care about you, or that I won't be here for you when you need me." She smiled at him then. "I'm still here, and together we're going to sort this all out."

"_All_ of it?"

She heard the deeper meaning in his tone. "Let's go one step at a time, Harry. Our first priority is to get you out of this mess you're in…"

He gripped her hand tightly. "It's not enough, Ruth. I want… I _need_ to know where I stand. With you. Where _we_ stand. Is there no hope at all for us?"

Ruth wanted to bolt from his grip and the room. She wanted to run as quickly as her legs would carry her away from the strength of the emotion she was feeling from him. But she knew it would be the end of him – it was suddenly obvious to her that Harry Pearce had a breaking point. And this was it, here, now. _She_ was his breaking point. If she ran away from him in this moment, when he was so fragile her words could shatter him, it would be finished. _He_ would be finished. In the churchyard, he still had reserves to draw on, he was strong and could weather her rejection, but now; she was no longer so certain. She looked into the deep amber eyes that were filled with fear and love and the tiniest spark of hope. And Ruth Evershed did not have it in her to stamp out that last shred of faith left in him; she couldn't destroy him so completely that he'd never recover nor trust another living soul again. She understood that it was his very being that she might crush with her smallest of words.

Inwardly shouting down her own doubts and fears, she put both her hands on either side of his face. "Harry," she said softly, "why do you always choose these overwrought moments to ask me such things, hmm?" His eyes crinkled in the pain of desolation, and she quickly added, "I'm not going to leave you, Harry. Even though you frighten me—"

"—I _frighten_ you?" He asked incredulously.

"Your _emotions_ frighten me," she corrected. "I'm sometimes so overwhelmed by you that I can barely breathe, and that terrifies me. Yet even though I can't hear myself think over my own doubts at this moment, I will not run from you." She swallowed hard, fighting her own tears. "I am your friend, Harry. I can't promise you anything more than that right here, right now. But I am your friend, and I'm not going to abandon you. I might yell at you, and tell you to bugger off; I might become enraged when you push me away like you did the other night – and I might not be able to tell you why it upset me so because I frankly don't know." Her voice rose in pitch with her agitation as the words continued to tumble out of her, "And sometimes I avoid being close to you, and I'm sorry, but it's because you scare the hell out of me, Harry. You scare me, and you frustrate me, and somewhere deep down inside of me, I think I love you for it."

And she stopped cold. Frozen blue stared down into shocked amber. And stared.

"W-what did you say?"

"I-I… I don't know," she stuttered, "I…"

"You said you loved me, Ruth."

"N-no, Harry, I said I l-loved you for scaring and frustrating me."

"Ruth…"

"Well t-that's w-what I said!"

His face dissolved into a slightly smug smile as he gathered her two hands into his right one, his left hand gently brushing her hair out of her face.

"It's all right, Ruth," he said softly, "I know it was in the heat of the moment and you didn't mean it…"

"Don't put words in my mouth," she snarled as she pulled away from him. "Don't you dare tell me what I mean or don't mean when I speak!"

"So you _did_ mean it then?"

"N-no! Well, m-maybe. Oh hell, Harry, I hate you when you do this…"

"Hate and love," he said softly, "two emotions that are so very closely aligned because of their intensity. First you think it's one, then you realize it's the other."

"_Harry_—"

He held up a hand in capitulation. "All right, all right. You win. I'll drop it." She looked at him and his eyes smiled for the first time since she'd seen him. "For now."

"You are one of the most frustrating men on the planet, Harry Pearce."

"It's a place to start, Ruth."

"No, since you are obviously feeling a bit better, the place to start is at the beginning of this nightmare you've got yourself in, Harry. We need to talk through it from the very beginning, everything you can recall." She watched as any levity that had been on his face dissipated rapidly. "Can you sit up?"

"If you help me."

She gently helped him sit up, leaning his back against the wall, and wrapping him in the blanket she sat next to him.

"So, from the beginning…"

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

Ruth listened while Harry recounted everything he could remember from the time he had walked into the pub the night before. She couldn't help but notice how tired he looked; exhausted really, and she pat his hand as she stood.

"I'm going to go now, Harry, and let you rest."

He grabbed her hand, hard. "No, Ruth. Please don't." He swallowed, embarrassed by his emotions. "Please don't leave me."

She sat back down next to him on the cot. "Harry, it's going to be all right, really. You need to rest and I need to look into this for you."

His eyes dropped in sorrow. "I know," he answered quietly.

Ruth reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small syringe and needle. "Give me your arm, Harry."

"What?"

"Give me your arm. I'm going to take a blood sample."

"It's too late for that, Ruth. The drugs will be long gone from my system."

"Maybe. Better we try than not, Harry."

He extended his arm and she drew the blood quickly, wrapping the syringe in a tissue and sliding it into her pocket. She shrugged into her coat and stood to go. The sadness in his shiny eyes made her heart drop.

Ruth cupped his chin with her hand and bent down. "Stay positive, Harry, please? For me?"

His eyes flicked up to hers. "I'll try."

Ruth leaned down and placed a soft, gentle kiss on his lips, much to his surprise. "That's to keep your spirit's up Harry, and to remind you that I do believe in you."

He nodded but found he was too choked up to speak. Ruth turned and walked out the door. As the bolt slid home behind her, Harry fought the tears threatening to spill from his eyes. Exhausted beyond his capacity to fight, Harry lie back on the cot and feel into a troubled sleep.

* * *

Ruth once again went over all of the evidence from the Crown's office and rubbed her eyes. If there was a hole in it, she couldn't see it. She leaned back in her chair.

"Lucas?"

He turned from his desk and looked at her. "Yes?"

"Anything?"

He shook his head. "Not yet. The analysis of the drug traces found on the syringe from the hotel room aren't back yet. But the fingerprints I found in the room were Harry's. There's no question that he was there."

Ruth shook her head. "And the erm… the…"

"The semen is also definitely Harry's. Sorry."

"Tariq," Ruth asked facing the younger man, "Have you found anything odd in the bank transfers?"

"Not really," he replied.

"What does that mean?"

"There was one tiny part of the transaction that I had to check twice, but I don't think—"

"—Tariq! What did you have to recheck?"

"Well, the server path at first didn't look quite right, but when I looked at it again, it was fine."

"Hmmm…."

Lucas spoke up, "Did you use the same source to check it?"

"Well, not exactly."

"Tariq…"

"The first time I saw it, I was looking through Harry's bank. When I checked it again, I was looking at it through Meghan Miles' bank records."

"Did you ever look through Harry's again?"

"Well no, because the second check was fine."

"Tariq… Harry's life depends upon us finding something… anything. Go back to Harry's bank and check again."

Tariq looked ill. "Okay, sorry."

Lucas and Ruth exchanged a look.

"When will we have the results back from the lab?" Ruth asked.

"Within an hour."

"Let's hope it tells us something…"

* * *

Harry awoke in a fevered state, having soaked his t-shirt, blanket and cot mattress. He groaned as he tried to find a comfortable position on the cot, and was once again reminded how sore his groin was – something he forgot to tell Ruth. He smiled at himself: he didn't really forget, he just couldn't bring himself to discuss it with her. He shifted his lower body once again, but couldn't get comfortable; he still felt slightly swollen and violated.

He finally turned on his side, and once again fell into an agitated sleep…

* * *

Lucas handed Ruth the readout from the lab, but couldn't resist telling her. "The syringe I found had traces of Harry's DNA!"

"They took his blood?"

"No," Lucas said, "not his blood…"

Then it dawned on Ruth. "Oh. Oh dear." Her lips pursed. "Why in the hell would someone remove, erm, his, erm, DNA that way?"

"Harry told you he was drugged, right?" She nodded. "Then this is consistent. It would be the easiest way they could get it from an unconscious man."

"So you're saying this proves that it's possible that his… DNA was removed using a syringe and then shot into Ms. Miles'… erm…making it look like they… uhm…"

"Yes." He smiled slightly. "Couldn't have said it better myself without saying it, Ruth."

Tariq approached them with papers in hand. "Here!"

"What is this?" Ruth asked incredulously.

"The IP numbers from the records held at Harry's bank don't match the IP numbers from Ms. Miles' bank. And the number should be consistent with IP terminal origin, and they're not!"

"In English, Tariq," Lucas growled.

"It proves that the transfer from Harry's back may not have originated from his bank."

"_May_ not… how can we prove it _did_ not conclusively?" Ruth asked.

"The only way I could prove that would be to hack into the MI-5 accounts at the bank from inside the bank…"

Lucas looked at his watch. "You're wasting time, Tariq. We need this in another two hours."

"You want me to hack in to MI-5s accounts? We'll never get away with that…"

Ruth stood and face the young man. "Tariq, I need you to do this. Harry needs you to do this. We need all the evidence supporting the fact that Harry was framed that we can get our hands on, and the Tribunal is in two hours."

Tariq frowned. "Great."

"Come on," Lucas said, "I'll go with you."

Tariq's frown deepened. "Fabulous."

* * *

"You can't deny me the opportunity to faithfully represent Sir Harry's interests at this tribunal, Mr. Allen. I need him examined by an MI-5 doctor. I've already told you what we have and what we suspicion."

"I'm sorry, but it's out of the question."

"Why? What could it harm?"

"I am not allowing anyone else access to him, and that's final."

Ruth glared. "Fine. I need to see him in any case." He glared at her, she glared back. "Now."

He sighed but nodded and Ruth turned on her heel heading for Harry's cell.

* * *

Harry groaned, feeling twice as warm as he had earlier. He thought he heard the squeak of the cell door opening, but his feverish mind couldn't quite make it out, nor did he really care. He heard heels click on the floor, then felt her presence.

"Oh Harry…" Ruth knelt next to the cot, putting her hand over his brow. "You're burning up. Harry?"

He moaned at the coolness of her touch. "Ruth?"

"Yes, Harry." Ruth dug into her bag and pulled out a handkerchief and bottle of water, pouring water onto the cloth. She pressed it against his burning forehead and he moaned. "There, this should help a little."

Harry closed his eyes and allowed Ruth to dab his face with the cool cloth. He felt his head being lifted, then the plastic bottle touch his lips. He opened his mouth slightly and Ruth poured a little cool water into it, gently laying his head back down.

"How long have you been like this, Harry?'

"I don't know, Ruth. I've felt hot for awhile…"

And then an idea entered her mind. "Thank God for small favors, Harry…"

She pounded on the door.

"What do you want?" A guard asked.

"Tell Mr. Allen that Sir Harry is quite ill and needs to see the doctor I brought with me immediately."

"He's not going to care…"

"Just do it."

Ruth turned back to Harry, putting her hands on either side of his face. "Just hang in there, Harry, it's going to be all right."

"Promise?"

She looked down into his fevered eyes and smiled at him. "Yes, I promise."

"Ruth?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"Is there a chance for us?"

"Are you still thinking of that?"

He nodded and Ruth could see the sadness in his eyes. Sadness and still that faint flicker of hope.

"Harry, you are about to face a tribunal to fight for your life; you're running a dreadful fever; and I'm not sure I can convince them not to kill you. Why in the world are you thinking about you and me right now?"

He looked deeply into her eyes. "Because it's all I have to hold on to, Ruth."

His eyes fluttered closed in a feverish dream, and Ruth let out the sigh of air she'd been holding.

A moment later, the doctor from MI-5 walked in with Allen on his heels.

"This had better not be a trick, Ruth," Allen growled.

Ruth stood and pointed toward the figure on the cot. "Does it look like I'm making it up? Feel his brow for yourself. Do it!"

Allen leaned in and placed a hand on Harry's head, then his throat, back of neck and arm. "He's burning up."

"Yes," Ruth agreed, "he is. Now can we stop with the accusations and let the doctor try and help him?"

Allen looked away. "Fine, but both of us will wait outside. Let's go."

"Fine," Ruth said, as she spared one glance at the doctor, hoping her eyes told him what she wanted him to do in addition to eliminating the fever.

The doctor waited until they both left the room, then he opened his bag, extracting a small camera equipped with a special magnifying lens, courtesy of Malcolm. He rolled Harry onto his back, eliciting a groan.

"It's all right, old boy, this will only take a moment."

He put his gloves on and gently pulled Harry's shorts down, exposing him. Upon seeing the red and swollen area, the doctor grimaced in sympathy.

"Poor lad, you were handled none too gently…"

Harry moaned in pain as the doctor examined him, and eventually found the aspiration mark in Harry's testicular sac. He took several pictures of the mark, then a few wider shots to expose the manhandling that Pierce had suffered. He finished with the exam as quickly as he could and put away the camera. He then dug into his bag to pull out a drug that would help bring down Harry's fever – at least he hoped it would. He also took a blood sample. The doctor returned everything to his bag and walked to the door. He glanced back at Pierce.

"Hang in there, lad, you'll feel a little better soon."

* * *

Ruth stood on the Grid and looked impatiently at her watch. "Come on then, let's get a move on, doctor. I'm running out of time. I have barely twenty minutes before this kangaroo court begins…"

The doctor compiled his test findings and handed them to her. "The blood sample that you took earlier does show a minute trace of gamma-hydroxybutyric acid, but of course not enough to have caused what he described. That said, it proves he ingested it."

"Gamma-hydroxybutyric acid?" Tariq asked from his desk.

"Mixed with alcohol, Tariq," Ruth said, "It is more commonly known as a date-rape drug."

"Oh…" Tariq turned back to face his computer screen.

"So," Ruth faced the doctor again, "he was telling the truth about being drugged."

"Yes. I just wish we'd found higher amounts… but it dissipates rapidly enough after so many hours."

"And the blood sample you took?"

"The results aren't back yet.

"Will he be all right for the tribunal?"

The doctor shrugged. "All right enough, I should think. I gave him something to bring down the fever."

"And what else did you find?"

"As we suspected, his testicular sac was aspirated and sperm removed using the syringe that Lucas found. He was also manhandled quite severely. I can't imagine he was awake through any of it – it would have hurt like hell."

Lucas and Tariq cringed as they heard the doctor and Ruth felt embarrassment and also sympathy for Harry.

"Very well."

"The pictures and proof are all in the file I gave you."

"I'm late, I'm afraid." She looked at the other MI-5 officers. "Wish me luck."

They all nodded and silently prayed as Ruth headed toward the pods.


	11. Chapter 11

Harry, dressed in the suit Ruth brought for him, sat uncomfortably in a wooden chair while evidence was presented against him by the prosecution; he noted that Allen seemed to take great pleasure in all of it. He reached a hand up to his head; the pounding of a headache that he couldn't shake was growing worse, and he felt as if his fever was barely being kept at bay. Ruth glanced over at him and worry filled her.

"Harry?" She whispered, "Harry? Are you all right?"

"Yes," he whispered back. "Fine. Just a little headache."

The "judge" appointed for this tribunal, one Oliver Marx from MI-6 bellowed at them, "There will be no talking during the presentation of the evidence."

"Sorry," Harry muttered.

As Allen continued to talk, Ruth sized up the proceedings. A heavy, wood-paneled room with a long table of twelve chairs filled with Harry's "peers;" this thought made Ruth almost laugh as the only thing she was sure of is that they didn't look particularly peer-like, much less friendly. The witness stand, which she would have to put Harry into later was next to the table where the "judge" sat.

Her attention was suddenly seized by Harry's death grip on her forearm. She turned toward him and all the color had drained from his face.

"Ruth, I…I don't feel well."

"I can see that, Harry." She stood. "Your honor, I beg your pardon, and the pardon of the crown's prosecution, but I'm afraid my client is not feeling at all well."

Oliver Marx looked over. "I should say not, he looks dreadful."

"May we have a brief recess?"

"Yes. See to him."

Ruth carefully lifted Harry by the arms and helped him out of the courtroom and to the gentlemen's down the hall. She waited for some time, but Harry did not reappear. Ruth asked a guard to check on him. The man came out a moment later, his own face slightly ashen.

"He's not well at all, Miss…"

"Bugger it all…" Ruth muttered as she charged into the men's room.

Harry was on the floor in a stall, leaning on the toilet seat.

"Harry…"

He turned into the bowl and once again vomited.

"Oh Harry…" Ruth knelt next to him. "Here, let me hold you up…"

Ruth took Harry from behind, holding his torso as he was violently ill. Following the siege, Ruth let him lean back against her for a moment. She felt his forehead; his fever was back with force. After several minutes, Ruth helped him up.

"Are you going to make it, Harry?"

"No choice, Ruth. I'll need you to steady me though."

"I'll be right beside you."

She braced him around the waist and helped he move toward the door. Harry reached for his own neck which felt horribly stiff. Ruth reached her hand up and rubbed his neck for a moment, eliciting a groan from him.

"Better?"

"Mmm…"

"Okay, let's go, Harry."

Ruth helped him back to the room and into his seat, but she noted that he looked frightfully pale and miserable.

Marx glanced at Pearce and shook his head. "You really look awful, Sir Harry."

"Yes sir."

"Should we postpone?"

"Yes," Ruth said.

"No," Harry said.

The two MI-5 officers looked at each other.

"Let's just get it over with," Pearce said.

"But Harry…"

"Please Ruth. I feel so awful. Let's just get this over with."

"All right." She faced Marx. "We'll continue, your honor."

"Very well."

Marx looked down at Sir Harry Pearce, and was none too sure that he would last…

* * *

Ruth glanced at Harry sitting in the witness chair and she swallowed hard; he looked like he would pass out at any moment. She swallowed hard before asking the next question.

"So you have no recollection of any of the events that Mr. Allen described?"

"No, none."

"Your honor, I would like to present exhibit A, an analysis of blood taken from Harry Pearce. It shows traces of the date rape drug gamma-hydroxybutyric acid. Mixed with alcohol, Sir Harry would have been rendered unconscious during the period of time he was supposed to have been raping and killing Meghan Miles."

"So entered," Marx responded.

"And Sir Pearce," Ruth continued, "please describe for us how you awoke the next morning and what you felt."

The look on Harry's face was one of utter embarrassment, but he knew Ruth had no choice.

"I awoke on top of my own bed at home with Scar—erm, my Jack Russell Terrier next to me. I was groggy and had a terrible headache…."

"And?"

He swallowed and had to look away from Ruth. "And my…groin area felt sore."

"Describe what you mean by 'sore,'" she said.

He glowered at her but continued, "I felt as if I had been mishandled."

"Please be specific, Sir Pearce," Ruth prodded.

"Oh really, isn't there any other way to do this?" Harry groused loudly.

"No, Harry, there is not. Now get on with it…"

He let out a huge sigh of air, and pressed on…

* * *

Ruth sat quietly next to Harry. She had presented all of the evidence that she had; everything that should have, in a normal court of law, planted enough doubt not to convict him. But this was a secret tribunal, not a court of law. There was no telling how it was going to go. She stared at the twelve men chosen to judge Harry. She glanced at the man sitting next to her; the man she cared so very deeply about; the man whom she thought she might love, although she would sooner die than admit it to another living soul. Harry looked like being pronounced guilty in that moment would be easier than feeling the symptoms of whatever illness had him in its clutches. She reached her hand over and felt Harry's forehead: even hotter than it was before.

"Hang on, Harry," Ruth said gently. She then reached behind his neck and massaged the muscles there. "Your neck still hurt?" He nodded and lowered his head so she could rub out the stiffness. "Try and relax."

Marx set down the files he was holding. "We have heard everything we are to hear, it is time to take the vote." He looked down at the "jury." "How say each of you? Number one?"

"Guilty."

"Number two?"

"Guilty."

"Number three?"

"Guilty.

Ruth swallowed hard. How could they be voting guilty? She had presented plenty of facts that proved Harry had been drugged, aspirated and sperm removed, and framed. How could they vote guilty? She could feel the man to her right tense with each voice echoing, "guilty." She glanced at him, and the sweat was running down his cheeks, and she could see a slight tremor in his hands and arms.

She leaned in close to him. "It's all right, Harry, we'll appeal this… It's not over by a long shot."

"You don't understand, Ruth," he whispered, "there is no appeal in one of these things."

"What are you saying?"

"Punishment is carried out immediately."

"Punishment? What about sentencing?"

He shook his head. "If you're found guilty at a tribunal, Ruth, the sentence is always the same." She looked deeply into his eyes and he said, "Death."

She felt tears begin to sting her eyes…

"Number eleven?

"Guilty."

"Number twelve?"

"Guilty."

Oliver Marx turned to face Harry. "Please stand, Sir Harry."

Harry found that his knees were buckling and Ruth had to help him.

"You have been found guilty by a secret tribunal of your peers. Punishment in these matters is swift." Marx looked toward the wood panel on his right and nodded; the panel slid open revealing a chair and an IV next to it. "I'm sorry, Harry."

Two burly guards stepped forward to take Harry from Ruth.

"No! No! This isn't right. He isn't guilty! You mustn't do this!"

"Ms. Evershed," Marx said, "you must calm yourself. It is over. You did your best, but it's over."

When Harry could see that Ruth was preparing to fight them off, he jerked free from one of the guards and took her by the arms.

"Ruth… Ruth, you did everything you could, and for that I am eternally grateful. But there's nothing more for you to do."

"But Harry, they're going to…"

"Yes, I know." He smiled his special smile for her, and leaned in, kissing her softly on the forehead. "Don't grieve, Ruth. Not for me."

He let the guards move him across the room and into the chair, strapping him into it. A doctor standing there rolled up his sleeve and slid the needle into his arm, preparing to release the valve on the IV.

Ruth ran toward the table of jurors. "Are you going to just sit there and do nothing? You're going to allow this man to be killed in a country that 'doesn't execute prisoners' right in front of you?" Ruth's hysteria was growing. "This is wrong. It is totally and utterly wrong. My God, what's wrong with all of you? Will not one of you stand up for him?" She leaned toward juror number five. "Charles… Harry risked life and limb to pull you from the op that went wrong in Tabriz… are you just going to sit there?"

The man looked away from her. She moved on to juror number eight.

"Alex… my God, Harry moved heaven and earth to free your wife and daughter, breaking every rule in the book to save them when they were taken. How can you allow this to happen?"

She backed away from the table. "Dear God, is there no one here who will stand up for English justice? Is there no one here who will wave this man who is not guilty?"

"Ruth," Harry's voice stopped her. "Ruth…"

She looked at him as the doctor's hand turned on the valve of the IV.

"Ruth, it's all right. I'm sorry you had to go through this, but thank you." His liquid amber eyes bore into her blue ones. "Thank you for trying. It means a lot…"

And as the drip took hold of him, Harry Pearce passed on from this world, and the wooden panel slid shut.


	12. Chapter 12

Oliver Marx stood and walked over to Ruth, taking her by the arms. "It's all right, Ms. Evershed. Really."

"No," Ruth could not contain her anger, "No it's not."

A voice from behind her startled her in its jovial lilt. "Well played, Oliver!" Ruth spun around and saw Towers appear, smiling from ear to ear. "I dare say that we have indeed rooted out the problem children in the MI-5 department…"

Towers moved over to Ruth, taking her hands. "Oh come on, Ruth, it's not that bad…"

Ruth jerked her hands away. "What are you saying? They just killed Harry, home secretary. Harry is dead."

Towers smiled sweetly and calmly at her, pulling her closer to him. "No, Ruth, no he's not."

"What? But I saw him die, just now, before you walked in here…"

"I know that's what you think you saw. And I'm sorry for the cruelness of it, but Harry and I knew it would be better if you didn't know…"

Ruth's eyes filled with tears and she couldn't stop them. Towers pulled her into him, holding her.

"Shhh, now, it's all right. You'll see him in a moment."

"I…I don't understand. He was so sick as well…"

"I'm afraid we shot him up with some horrible stuff that made him feel most unwell; but the IV you saw him hooked up to was actually an antidote to it."

Pearce appeared momentarily, no longer looking like death walking, much to the shock and fear of the twelve men who not only voted him guilty, who wouldn't reverse it even when they watched him die. Ruth felt stunned. In a moment she had suffered the loss of someone she thought she might love only to see him walk out looking perfectly fine the next. And Ruth hated him for putting her through it.

Harry shook hands with Oliver Marx. "Thanks Oliver, quite a little performance you put on."

"You as well, Sir Harry. Most enchanting!"

Pearce turned to the guards and nodded toward the "jury." "Please see that these 'gentlemen' wind up in the appropriate holding cells for questioning."

The guards nodded and went to collect the men. Pearce moved toward Towers and Evershed. The home secretary extricated himself from Ruth and shook hands with Pearce.

"Well done, Harry. Very, very well done."

"Thank you, home secretary."

"I must be off now, Sir Harry," Towers said, nodding toward Ruth, "I believe you have an apology to make."

"Yes, indeed I do."

Towers moved away and Harry stood closer to Ruth.

"Ruth?"

Evershed stood with her arms wrapped around herself, tears still spilling down her cheeks.

"Oh Ruth, it's all right now." Harry pulled Ruth into his arms, holding her very tightly against himself. He rocked her slightly. "It's okay."

Ruth cried and held Harry tightly for a moment; only until her rational mind remembered what he had just done to her. She pushed away from him, slapping him across the face.

"How could you?"

He let her put a little distance between them, rubbing his cheek. "Now Ruth…"

"No, Harry. How could you do this to me? What a horrible, inexcusable thing to do to someone who—"

Ruth barely stopped herself in time. And Harry knew it. A smile began to slightly curl his full lips.

"Someone who what, Ruth?"

She glared at him. "You are a terrible man, Henry James Pearce."

"That's Sir Henry James Pearce to you, my dear."

"I hate you, Harry!"

He smiled at her sweetly. "Yes, I know, Ruth."

Ruth Evershed turned on her heel and left him standing there. And Harry Pearce chuckled slightly.

"I hate and I love. Perhaps you will ask how that can be possible. I do not know: but that is what I feel and it torments me…" Harry quoted.

He followed Ruth out of the building, knowing at some point later, he would calm her and explain the necessity of his actions. He stood on the street, watching her as she caught the bus.

"Oh Ruth," he whispered, "I wish I weren't the cause of your torment."

###


End file.
